in with the green foliage and brown bark. Fey came and went from it, the center of command.
Guards waited stoically at the wide entrance.
They nodded access to the Kreche.
When Richard, Bran, Snedeker, and the Kreche entered, dozens of eyes shifted toward them. Orbs hung high within the interior of the tent, casting warm white light over the gathered Lords of the Seelie Court. The Morrigan stood before a map displayed on a broad oak table, the leader of the Tuatha de Dannan wearing sleek black armor, her eyes hard. Horsemaster Aife and Lord n’Hagr stood near her, listening to what she said. To the side Lord Eigion spoke to two other merrow and the stocky coblynau Lord Faric, grandson of Lord Fafnir of Caer Glain. Lord Finnbhennach and four very tall minotaurs discussed their armor with Mastersmith Govannon, who examined the steel and straps with diligence. Kegan looked up from a plush divan where he whittled a piece of wood into the shape of a Rhedewyr and honest happiness covered his features at seeing them. Deirdre and her father, Lord Gerallt, were also present, standing apart.
Out of all those who had been present at the Seelie Court meeting, only Lord Caswallawn was absent, unable to keep up with the Kreche while fleeing Caer Llion.
“You found them,” the Queen said, nodding her approval.
When the monstrosity put Richard down upon the soft rugs, the Morrigan called for Belenus immediately. The ancient healer appeared from the depths of the tent and rushed to his side, the wizened old man’s eyes soulful and worried. He immediately began to probe for injuries.
“Stay your place, healer. I have a broken arm,” Richard said. “Bran. The bag.”
“You need aid,” the Morrigan asserted.
Bran unslung the leather sack he had taken. He gave it to Richard who uncorked it and drank from its contents.
The change was instantaneous. Richard felt vitality flow into him. The broken arm, at an odd angle and purpled down its length, straightened itself, the bruising vanishing as the bones grew back together on their own. The smaller wounds, bruises, and the weariness on Richard melted like ice under the sun. After seconds, no injuries or scars marred him.
Those around him stared in awe, and whispers filled the tent.
“Welcome back to the living, Rick,” the Kreche rumbled.
Richard took a deep breath. “Thank you, old friend.”
“How can this be?” Kegan breathed.
“Deirdre, come here,” Richard commanded.
She gave her father an uncertain look but went over to Richard anyway, the burn damage done to her back and arm hindering her movements despite the aid she had already received.
“Drink,” Richard ordered.
Deirdre gripped the pouch uncertainly but did as she was told. Surprise came over her face the moment the water hit her lips. She returned the bag in order to lower her tunic and the bandaging that covered the deep burns she had sustained. The skin of her back, once melted and blistered, smoothed until all remnants became healthy pale skin.
Richard handed the pouch to the Queen. “The water in that bag has been blessed and consecrated by the power of the Word’s savior, from the chalice of the Holy Grail itself.”
“The Graal,” the Morrigan murmured. “How did it come to the Usurper?”
“I do not know, although it does explain his longevity,” Richard said. “But I do know this, and the entire Seelie Court must listen. When Bran and I snuck into Caer Llion we entered through a small cave carved from the rock of the cliff face by a hidden spring beneath the castle. That spring forms a small lake, and at its heart glimmered some kind of object that captured the dripping water and fed it into the pool. At the time I had no idea what it was. When the Templar Knights of Caer Llion attacked Bran and me, we could not defeat them. They captured us easily. Every time we ended their threat with force, they rose to come at us again. Burns, broken bones, didn’t matter. These warriors were invincible.”
“But how?” Lord n’Hagr questioned.
Richard pointed at the bag in the hands of the Queen. “Each of them had one of those.”
The members of the Seelie Court shared looks of concern.
“My cattle,” Lord Finnbhennach muttered.
“Exactly right,” Richard said. “The griffins did pick clean your cattle but not for the reasons we thought. The griffins stole their hides so that they could be cured and become thousands of those leather bags.” Richard let what he was saying sink in. “Somehow Philip has taken the power of the